The Golden Age and its Enemies
by Sachertorte-mit-sahne
Summary: —The Decline and Fall of Cybertron— Mirage, a sparkling of the Golden Age, is witness to the disintegration of civilization. He must somehow find a way to survive under the barbaric rule of brutishness and ignorance. BIOGRAPHY, HISTORY, ROMANCE, SLASH
1. Chapter 1

**THE GOLDEN AGE AND ITS ENEMIES**

THE DECLINE AND FALL OF CYBERTRON—A BIOGRAPHY

* * *

**PREFACE**

_As a Classics-major-in-training, fascinated with Enlightenment philosophy and society, and more than a little familiar with every period the writers of IDWverse Transformers seemed to wish to reference, the idea of writing an epic chronicl of Cybertron's history is one that's been nagging at me for a while. Of course the only problem is—where to start? I'm no Tacitus and certainly no Gibbon, and besides, Transformers never gave us that kind of history. They gave us ideas implicit in individuals. _

_Consequently, I chose to write a biography. I debated with myself as to whether I ought to write a picaresque, Voltaire-ish satire, perhaps focusing on a character like Smokescreen or Jazz; ultimately, this medium failed to convey the dark, nostalgic quality of a magnificent and enlightened society crumbling to nothing, except with a wry and pessimistic tone, which was not what I wanted. Ultimately, the character whose life I chose to chronicle was Mirage. A product of the Golden Age himself, to relate the story of his own decline and fall, and to see the destruction of civilization through his optics was precisely the tone I wanted to achieve. _

_So, while this is a biography of Mirage, I hope it also serves to shed some light on the whole institution of Cybertronian society merely teasingly hinted at by the canon. Please enjoy it! _

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

The sky over Altihex was liberally spattered with stars, but when viewed from the ground all but the brightest were extinguished. The surface of the planet shone brighter, casting a warm glow that reflected from every surface, a golden aura cast about Cybertron. The planet's halo enhanced the beauty of every edifice, and there were few places on the face of the planet more beautiful than the district covering the north of Altihex, the magnificent, glittering skyscrapers and their sprawling grounds that were home to Cybertron's aristocracy, known _de facto_ as the Towers.

It was a part of Cybertron, but it could almost have been another planet; the dense dwellings and commercial sectors vanished suddenly into uncultivated, flat expanses of land, the sharp, clean lines of the slender towers rising up into the inky sky punctuating the landscape. Undisturbed by the buzz of a town or a city, the Towers were still and silent, the very air given a quality of refined and private decorum. Every few cycles the distant cry of a hunting horn could be heard, pealing across the land, or else the soft strains of music might be heard floating out from some drawing room, hall or private quarters.

It was a realm where culture and civilisation reigned; the source of Cybertron's wealth, the home of its patricians and patrons, the resting-place of many a library unparalleled by the best University Cybertron had to offer, or art collection unrivalled by the most long-established of galleries. It was the domain of reason, of learning and of liberty; it was the domain of peace.

Perhaps a megamile or so out from one such skyscraper, two young noblemechs lounged together on the ground, a decanter of high grade set between them.

"To go."

"Ago, agas, agat, agamus, agatis, agant."

The larger of the two, a kind-faced young mech painted in various shades of crimson, sat with his knees drawn up. Dashboard was several stellar cycles the senior of his companion, and his build and armor distinctly more bulky; not that he was in any way ungraceful as a result. The Alpha class were marked simply by sight by their delicate, elegant appearance.

"To throw."

"Iacio, iacias, iaciat, iaciamus, iaciatis, iaciant. Give me something harder."

Stretched out on his front, the younger and smaller leaned on his elbows and kicked his feet idly, gazing at the ground as he mouthed his way around the syllables of Old Cybertronian. Mirage, renowned even amongst his young peers for his haughty reserve, his icy glossa, and his kindness and companionship to those he had accepted as friends.

"Alright, alright… to dare."

"Audeo, audis, audit, audimus, auditis, audint."

"Audant."

Mirage made a soft sound of annoyance and rolled on to his back, sitting up and resting his elbows on his thighs.

"Oh. Blast."

Dashboard smiled indulgently, coaxing his younger friend into his arms. Mirage, reticent and aloof as ever, stiffened before gradually relaxing against Dashboard's chest. The scarlet sparkling nuzzled the back of his companion's helm, reaching for the decanter and tipping it against Mirage's lips, playfully and indulgently feeding the smaller mech. Mirage drank, the pale lavender liquid a welcome refreshment after his deep concentration.

"Dashboard, there is no need to feed me," he protested feebly. "Just because I'm younger than you are doesn't mean I need your help to refuel."

Dashboard smiled. "But I like you, Mirage, very much indeed. Shall I just hug you then?"

"If you insist," Mirage sighed, but the relaxed press of his small, slender body against his friend's betrayed his cold tone.

It didn't take long at all for them to resume their game, this time with Mirage settled neatly between Dashboard's legs, head against his friend's shoulder.

"To walk."

"Ambulo, ambulas, ambulat, ambulamus…"

---

Senator Cicarix's reputation was renowned throughout Iacon—his name was a byword for fairness, reason and upstanding morality. In the Senate his oratory was all but unparalleled; his word did not guarantee the sway of a debate, but his skill with words and the power of persuasion not by trickery but explanation that he commanded made him one of the most celebrated orators Iacon had ever given Cybertron.

With both rank and class of the highest degree—an Alpha, of the oldest patrician estate—it was all but taken for granted that Cicarix would align himself with the Optimae, the aristocratic faction of the Senate. Yet even those siding with the populist coterie, the Conaequalae, were hard-pressed to smear him; his unsmiling, stubborn character and his devotion to justice and rationality, coupled with both the reserve and the benevolent kindness befitting of an Alpha, often rendered his precise allegiance of little account.

The Senate had closed session, and Cicarix, exhausted after more than thirty-seven cycles of debate, left the _Curia Primus_. He departed the Forum, making his way through the low-storey buildings cut through with wide roads characteristic of Iacon City's center, greeted with a flurry of salutes from the civilians. Cicarix was of unusually large build for a patrician, but managed, barely, a more august bearing than an ungainly one, by virtue of the grace and elegance inherent in the nobility's programming. Draped from shoulder to ankle in the white robes of a Cybertronian Senator, he bore a majestic image indeed.

He turned down a side road and let himself into his apartment—as most Senators, Cicarix owned quarters in the capital as well as his estate in Altihex—and the door hissed quietly shut behind him, blocking out the noise of the street. As promptly and faithfully as ever his attendant, Silere, was at his side, ushering him into the main room. The slender, diligent servant divested Cicarix of his robes, carrying them through to his rooms before returning with a decanter of energon. Cicarix sank down gratefully on to the couch, stretching his legs out and taking the flute of pale lavender energon from Silere.

"Have there been any calls?"

Silere stood dutifully at ease. "None, sir, since you began session."

Cicarix was pensively silent for a few moments, and then he drained the flute of high-grade—Silere was already reaching to take it from his hand.

"Put me through to Altihex," he said at last. "I wish to speak to Mirage. Leave us and prepare me a bath; I will bathe after I terminate the call. I'm exhausted. It seems the senate has chosen to charge me with the solution of Cybertron's every mishap. Poor Consul Decimus barely maintained control of assembly."

Silere smiled slightly. "Your reputation precedes you, sir," he said softly.

Cicarix made a dismissive noise. "I am Cybertron's lawyer, it seems," he replied drily. Silere said nothing more, still smiling gently, and put through a call to Altihex before vacating the room to clean the flute of energon and heat Cicarix's bath.

---

"This is Mirage speaking." The young noble was aloof and well-spoken, his voice preceding his image appearing on the screen of Cicarix's comm unit. "Oh-! My Lord." A gracious acknowledgement of his creator, but now there was an undercurrent of warmth in his voice, even the hint of a smile in his optics.

"Hello, Mirage." Cicarix, reclining on his couch, smiled at his young heir. "How are you?"

"I didn't expect you to call, Sir," Mirage answered truthfully, settling back into his chair with a proud lift of his chin. "But I'm glad you did."

"That's always good to hear. What have you been doing in my absence?"

"I played with Dashboard today, Sir," Mirage relayed dutifully. "We played at Ancient Cybertronian. I'm getting good now," he added proudly.

Cicarix smiled. "I didn't know you knew any Ancient Cybertronian," he remarked.

"I like it, Sir. It's fun. I've only been learning it for about half a decacycle."

"I have really been away too long," Cicarix sighed. "Is Pervalia taking good care of you? Has anyone been troubling you?"

Mirage was starting to outgrow his governess, Pervalia, but she remained in Altihex as his guardian, for the most part due to Cicarix's frequent absence.

"Pervalia has been very good to me," said Mirage, smiling. "One of the chambermaids broke a flute of energon about two megacycles ago, but I told her off and left it at that. It wasn't a very important glass."

"Very good, Mirage. I am glad my house can be run smoothly in my absence, at least." Though really it was Sedulor, the butler, that kept the household running, nonetheless his son's own conduct pleased Cicarix, and there was warmth in the Senator's optics and pride in his voice. Mirage's optics dimmed happily.

"Will you come home soon, Sir?" asked the sparkling, trying not to sound too hopeful—all too often Cicarix spent long periods of time in Iacon, and it would not do to sound too excitable when circumstances were out of either of their control.

Cicarix sighed. "I hope so, Mirage, but I don't know. Consuls Decimus and Ratbat's term is coming to an end—you know I must stay in Iacon during such times."

Mirage nodded, and did not let his disappointment show in his face. "Of course, Sir, I understand."

"Very good, Mirage. Go and play now—I shall call again, when sufficient time is at my disposal."

"Yes, Sir. …Thank you for calling."

"Take care, Mirage. Cicarix out."

The line went dead, and Cicarix picked himself up to his feet, walking out to the washroom where Silere and his bath were waiting for him.

---

Mirage leaned back in his chair after the line was cut, arms dangling down and head tipped back. He sighed softly, swallowing his dismay. Truth be told, he'd been looking forward to seeing his creator again after so long—Cicarix had not been in Altihex for nearly a stellar cycle. Return trips had been planned and then postponed, interrupted by various pressures on Cicarix's time, minor upheavals in the Senate that required the respected Senator's presence.

It wasn't as though Mirage didn't understand.

He got to his feet, wandering rather listlessly out of his quarters through the halls of his creator's Tower, the glass walls of the skyscraper facing out on to a vertiginously high drop, the grounds of the estate stretching out and away, the spires of other Alphas' dwellings dimly visible in the distance.

"Mirage?"

He turned at the sound of his governess' voice, wide golden optics meeting narrow green.

"Yes, Ma'am?" he responded politely.

Pervalia walked unhurriedly up to him, laying a black hand on his shoulder and bending down to meet his height a little better.

"It's most unusual to see you indoors at this time," she observed. Her voice, as ever, was quietly authoritative, self-possessed and devoted.

"My creator called," Mirage replied, and he must have been more upset than he realised because his neutrality failed him, and his governess' optics dimmed in sympathy. Mirage held back a frown. He disliked others' concern, found it overbearing and oppressive.

"He is staying in Iacon, I suppose," she murmured compassionately, and Mirage nodded.

"Indefinitely."

"Oh, what a shame," the femme mused, and put her hand about Mirage's narrow shoulders, leading him firmly away from the window. When he was younger she might have picked him up, cradled him against her chest, but he was old enough now that he would have resented it. She was not, however, above comforting the proud little sparkling. "Don't be down, Mirage. Come with me, and I'll teach you some madrigals."

She spoke gently, but in a way that indicated she would not take any argument, and Mirage let himself be led away to the music room. Though he was loath to admit it, he was grateful for the companionship.

* * *

_Notes: _

_I use Latin, one of the main precursors of English, as Old Cybertronian, on the basis that it holds similar connotations to the English eye as Old Cybertronian does to the Cybertronian optic._

_Whilst I tend to try and base my appraisal of the Golden Age on the Roman Republic, to the extent that it is based on Roman history, I recognise that this is rather against the intention of the IDW writers, who based it on the empire. Thus, while I grant considerable power to the Senate and Consuls, I keep the office of Prime above that of Consul, which position is occupied by Sentinel currently as it is in the canon. I hold that Sentinel was the ruling Prime during the entire golden age, his predecessor being Nova Prime, and his successor naturally being Optimus. __However, I also will relegate the powers of the Prime to military and religious duties; the affairs of state are still, largely speaking, in the hands of the Senate, due to the moral-political climate of the era, excepting law enforcement, which here is considered a subdivision of the military._

* * *

_Finally, massive thanks to Soggy-Phoenix who helped me with some of the OCs, and to Ironical_Jester who put up with me blathering about Mirage for months.  
_


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **The Golden Age and its Enemies - Chapter TWO  
**Rating: **PG  
**Pairing:** OCxOC  
**Wordcount: **2058

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

Silere was waiting in the bathchamber, a shadow amidst dim lights and perfumed air, kneeling dutifully on the floor by the by the shallow bathtub, which was sunk into the floor and filled with warm, scented solvent. He rose to his feet as Cicarix entered, the slightest of smiles hovering on his lips.

"Was Master Mirage well, Sir?"

Cicarix crossed the room to the bath, kneeling down in one smooth, graceful movement, incongruous considering the weight of his frame. He eased himself into the solvent, engine purring briefly at the pleasant feeling, tipping his head back against the tiles of the floor and offlining his optics. In the subdued light of the room, the aura of their optics, Cicarix's gold and Silere's blue, was the brightest light.

"He was," rumbled Cicarix. "Very well indeed."

Silere dipped a soft washcloth into the solvent and ran it gently over Cicarix's plating, starting at his helm and working his way efficiently and gently over his face, his neck and shoulders. Cicarix sighed, slowly bringing his optics online again.

"I daresay he was disappointed that you would not be able to return to Altihex?" murmured Silere, dipping the washcloth again. It returned, wet, to Cicarix's plating, rivulets of solvent trickling over the metal.

Cicarix's optics dimmed. That was Silere; observant as a turbohawk.

"…He was," the Senator managed finally, quietly. He added, "I miss him, Silere. I wish I could return more often."

There was the softest of pained undertones in Cicarix's voice. Silere was the only one that ever heard such tacit admissions from the Senator, subtle as they were. Silere understood.

"I am sure he will manage in your absence, Sir. And when you do see him, it will be all the sweeter." The servant's voice was almost apologetic, full of quiet and rueful sympathy. Cicarix's shoulders slumped just a little.

"Of course…" he murmured, sitting up to allow Silere access to his back. Delicate, skilful fingers smoothed the cloth along the Senator's armor, cleaning away dirt and stress. Silere attended his master diligently, with all the quiet grace and assiduity of one who bore not a shred of resentment for his servitude.

The silence dragged on comfortably; Cicarix did not speak, and thus Silere did not respond. The only sounds in the heavy air were the quiet cycling of the two mechs' vents, and the dripping and soft splashing of solvent.

At last, one dainty hand tenderly supporting the Senator's massive ankle, Silere finished at Cicarix's feet and rose to drain away the solvent and fetch a fresh cloth and a jar of polish. He polished and then buffed the Senator's plating until it shone, a flawless job, as it had been every mega-cycle before.

There was always something in Cicarix's optics that belied gratitude, even if it was never spoken, even if it would never be spoken. Even if it had no place in their relationship.

Silere smiled, a full smile for the scantest of brief moments, and stepped back, examining his work.

"Finished, Sir," he said softly, self-evidently.

Cicarix's optics glowed warmly. "Very good, Silere," he praised gently. It was only partly to see the soft flush of delight in his manservant's optics that was never quite hidden properly.

Cicarix reached out, laying a hand on Silere's shoulder, the action almost beseeching despite its firm authority. It was as good as words; the smaller mech took two steps forward, not quite touching his master's plating, and leaned up for the kiss that Cicarix bent to give him.

It was soft, not at all an assertion of power or dominance on Cicarix's part, and Silere's bearing was no more submissive than at any other time. It was, within their respective roles, a mutual, equal kiss. Silere's hand found Cicarix's, and Cicarix squeezed gently, merely the lightest of pressure—and then they broke apart, a reluctantly soft parting of lips and hands. Cicarix's optics were glowing brighter, fonder.

"If you would bring me energon in two cycles," he ordered gently.

Silere stepped back, still smiling ever-faintly, and gave the slightest of bows. "Certainly, Sir."

He opened the door and held it for Cicarix, before turning back to clean up the bathchamber.

---

The megacycle began anew, and the bell of the Academy tolled out across the spires of Altihex. The city was already alive, street-merchants and newsvendors at the corners, and the sight of the occasional pitch-black-painted Scholar, or Priest swathed in blue, caused only the smallest of commotions amongst the citizens. In the residence hall of Complex Beta-7, awoken by the peal of the bell, one young graduate student staggered from his recharge berth, still exhausted even after six cycles of recharge.

Perceptor had lived in Altihex for the past twenty-four stellar cycles of his life, all of them at the Academy. He had arrived as an undergraduate as barely more than a sparkling at Complex Phi-18, dressed in black robes and surrounded by mechs—Scholars, fellows of the Academy—painted head to foot in black, fed, housed and instructed by elder, kinder mechs than he had ever known at home. It was truly the only place for the shy mech to thrive; his inquisitiveness encouraged over cubes of energon late into the cycle. The staff, at the slightest hint of a request, provided for him erudite and ancient datapads, chemicals, and equipment—and Perceptor had a voracious appetite for materials.

He washed himself under a spray of solvent and dried beneath the blow-drier, warm air blasting across his plating and serving to lift the fog in his processors just a little. He struggled awkwardly to drape himself in the black mantle of his status—the sights of his alt-mode, mounted on his shoulder, made the action difficult, but he succeeded eventually. The habit of the action made it easier every megacycle.

He was greeted by the soft blush of the city, bathed in a haze of gold and peach, as he descended the steps of the residence hall and into the street. He bought a cube of energon on his way to the Complex, sipping it as he walked, and by the time he'd slipped into the lecture hall and taken his seat he was more or less awake.

The lecturer—a tall, nervous mech, shoulders shadowed by two bulky fans of armor—spoke at length, scrawling formulae and gesticulating wildly. Perceptor turned on his datapad, copying the formulae down in a neater hand than the lecturer had ever imparted them. His concentration was absolute; undistracted by either the undeniably comical disposition of the lecturer, nor by the other mechs in the room. The lecture hall was an amphitheatre cut in half by the wall upon which an enormous screen was mounted. The lecturer wrote upon a small board on the table before him, and the image was projected on to the screen, the glyphs easily visible to every student in the room.

The Academy at Altihex was the most ancient in Cybertron, and reputedly the best. Founded so long ago that none remained alive to remember the event, it had originally been created to train and educate the priesthood. Complexes Alpha-4 and Delta-1 were the oldest, the twisting, fanciful architecture of the tiny structures marking them entirely as of a bygone era, incongruous next to the enormous colonnades, insolent domes and defiant symmetry of the current style. The Academy remained a removed and esoteric cloister—until the explosion of culture that occurred after the end of the Second Cybertronian War left even it untouched, and it blossomed into a fount of learning, of unparalleled scholarship and discovery.

In its wake, more academies were founded across the planet, in response to the demand from the newly-wealthy, for education for themselves and for their sparklings. None came even close to replicating the majesty and reputation of the Academy; all were shadows, imitations, good for the education of the middle classes, aspiring to a gold standard they could not reach. They served their purpose.

To receive an invitation to study under the Scholars at the Academy was the highest honor of the academic world. It conferred an automatic merit on the recipient, a natural recognition no matter his age or his background. Universal respect was guaranteed from the moment one donned the students' black robes. The offspring of aristocrats could purchase the Scholars' time to pursue their own curiosities; the offspring of the _nouveaux-riches _could do the same, but were considered vulgar for it. However, without a certain degree of promise—higher than most could even hope to display—one could not be invited as a Student no matter how much money one was willing to pay. The aristocrats did not wear robes. They were not envious; they had more than sufficient status to require affirmation from elsewhere.

Perceptor's creator was an artisan, a blacksmith, and had brought up his creation in a suburb of the industrial city-state of Tyrest. Highly numerate and barely literate, and proud of the independence he'd created for himself through hard work and exploitation of the demand for industrial goods; though he was far too poor to afford a proper education at any other academy, the Academy at Altihex had invited Perceptor at their own expense. He encouraged his creation's interest in the sciences, and was a resource of seemingly infinite knowledge of metallurgy. But he was strict, rough and unable at times to tolerate his sparkling's shy behavior.

The Academy was a haven for Perceptor. He'd been glad the day he left Tyrest on the shuttle bound for Altihex, and the subsequent twenty-four stellar cycles had only proven his gladness well-founded. His creator, whom he had once believed to be deeply knowledgeable, he discovered to have been narrow-minded boor. The Scholars, even the scientists well versed in literature, history, rhetoric and poetry, were unconcerned with his rate of progress or success, preferring instead to engage him in conversation, to lure him out with his own curiosity. They found their efforts more than rewarded. It was widely accepted that the timid, stuttering microscope was one of the most gifted students in Altihex.

---

"I didn't think I'd find you in here, Mirage."

Mirage turned in his chair to the door of the library. He was seated at his creator's desk in the low-ceilinged, cosy room, his feet dangling far above the floor, a datapad in his hands. He set it down as Pervalia approached him, straight-backed and stiff-handed, bearing a tray of energon.

"Come now," she said, handing him the cup. The liquid inside was pale blue, light and fragrant. "Drink up. I thought you had fallen asleep somewhere."

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," Mirage replied. "I lost track of the time."

"It doesn't matter," Pervalia reassured. "I've made ready your room, so when you wish to recharge you may go straight up."

Mirage nodded. Pervalia lingered, the corners of her mouth pulled down more than usual, and the young noblemech looked up at her.

"Is something troubling you, Ma'am?"

Viridian optics narrowed pensively. "I fear I'm too concerned for your wellbeing, Mirage, so forgive my foolishness, but I fear for Cicarix's absence."

"_My_ wellbeing, Ma'am…?"

"Only that you miss your creator, little one, and I fear too much."

Mirage's optics dimmed, and he glanced away.

"Don't fear for that, Ma'am," he replied softly. "I trust my creator to do what's right."

"As do I, Mirage, but you know how I've worried since…"

She trailed off and turned away, making to leave the room. Mirage looked at her then, halting her in her steps. His optics brightened with focus.

"Ma'am, I've told you before, that is immaterial."

"Immaterial? It is not so, Mirage, with greatest respect; it is not so to Cicarix."

Mirage looked at his feet. As a servant, Pervalia was always deferential, but that did not prevent her from criticizing him. "I am not Cicarix, Ma'am. I hardly knew him…" He sounded distinctly guilty.

There was a beat of silence, impossible to tell whether it was awkward or not, until finally Pervalia laid her hand on Mirage's shoulder and smiled gently.

"Find me when you want to go to bed, Mirage, and I'll come and kiss you."

Mirage nodded, his optics downcast. "Yes, Ma'am, thank you."

Pervalia left the room in gentle, measured steps, and Mirage listlessly turned, unable to quite capture the previous enthusiasm he'd felt for his reading.

---

* * *

_On the subject of buying the time of the Scholars, it should be noted that almost without exception, the newly-enriched middle-classes used an education bought from the Academy as an affirmation of their precarious status. The Alphas and other upper-classes, however, had never felt any threat to their status, and consequently their own motivation was far more noble; a desire to pursue a subject of curiosity to them with a mind capable of extending their knowledge in all directions. Hence derived the universal view of the vulgarity of the nouveaux-riches hiring Scholars to teach them. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **The Golden Age and its Enemies - Chapter THREE  
**Rating: **R  
**Pairing: **OCxOC  
**Wordcount: **2658

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE**

A flute of energon in one hand, Silere knocked respectfully at the door to Cicarix's quarters, and waited for the quiet "Enter," before opening the door. It slid shut behind him as he set the goblet in Cicarix's hand, and he stood dutifully while the Senator drank. Scattered across the desk were innumerable datapads—transcripts, annals, various portions of Cybertron's code of law—all annotated in Cicarix's fluid handwriting. The last two cycles had been productive.

Cicarix put his arm out, wound it around his manservant's hips and pulled him closer, resting his head against Silere's midsection. Silere's hands came up to stroke tenderly along the crest of his master's helm, and Cicarix turned to press his lips to his servant's plating.

"Do you have any pressing duties to attend to?" The Senator's voice rumbled low and quiet against Silere's plating.

"No, Sir."

"Then stay here with me." It was a request, phrased as an order; a plea that would not do to be spoken as a plea.

"Of course, Sir," assented Silere, simultaneously obeying and consenting.

He sank gracefully to his knees beside Cicarix, mouth tilted up for the kiss that followed. Cicarix ran his hands over his servant's neck and shoulders, enjoying the neat, slender proportions of Silere's body with an almost reverent touch. Silere mewed softly into the kiss, melting just the slightest bit into his master's hands.

The touch was returned, hands reaching for Cicarix's helm, kind and submissive, to deepen the kiss.

It was Cicarix, naturally, that finally broke it; he rose from his chair, optics dimmer and darker than usual, all but unable to take his optics from his servant kneeling before him. He offered his hand to help Silere up, and with an arm around his waist, pulled him close. Silere fit against his master's plating mostly by virtue of their difference in size, his slender body moulding to the heavy, sharp angles of Cicarix's. They kissed again, and then again, Cicarix's glossa coaxing Silere's lips apart for deeper kisses, more passionate, more giving.

Silere broke first, as he invariably did; one slender leg hitched up around Cicarix's broad thigh and he gasped, a soft caress of warm air against the Senator's lips. Cicarix purred, his hand dropping to the curve of Silere's waist, pressing their chests together. It earned him a shudder and the softest of little whines and he pulled back, taking Silere by the arm and leading him to the berth, meeting no resistance whatsoever. It was almost gallant, the way he held Silere's slender arm, the hand around his shoulder; almost protective and loving and devoted, were it not for the deferent downwards tilt of Silere's head. They two would always be master and servant just as much as lovers; it was a part of the same dynamic, an inseparable part of their relationship.

Cicarix lowered Silere back on to the berth, optics sweeping over the curve of the smaller mech's body, the slight arch of his back and the smooth, taut lines of his thighs, legs raised and just slightly spread; the picture of trusting and unreserved obedience. He smiled gently up at his master, and Cicarix's optics guttered just a little. He lowered himself down next to Silere, supporting himself on one arm to lean over his servant and press gentle kisses to his mouth, to his face and helm and neck.

As always, Silere waited with infinite patience for Cicarix to make the move and manoeuvre himself on top of his servant, brushing firm, kind fingers over the smaller mech's chest. At the very first touch of Cicarix's hand Silere's plating buckled, shifting and splitting open partway to reveal the first glimmers of his spark. He pressed up against Cicarix's hand, permitting himself such a lack of control only in the knowledge that Cicarix enjoyed the sight; indeed, the Senator's engine purred loudly, and his own chestplates rearranged themselves unhurriedly. All it took was a heavy, open-palmed brush along the inside of Silere's thigh to have the smaller mech part his legs sufficiently to take the width of Cicarix's hips.

Cicarix lowered his body to press against Silere's with a crackle of electricity that made them both cry out in unision, shuddering with a soft, possessive groan of satisfaction. Silere arched and moaned, clutching at Cicarix's shoulders—and then again, as the Senator's spark pulsed hotly, a wave of electric heat breaking between the two that sent Silere thrashing, scraping his foot across the back of his master's thigh in ecstasy.

"Ohh, Sir--…"

Cicarix's response was to bury his head in the juncture between Silere's neck and his shoulder, to growl possessively and flare his spark again. Silere gave a choked off whine and pressed his face against Cicarix's helm, returning a weaker echo of the flare in kind.

Heat and electrical charge built between them, Silere bucking and squirming beneath his master, arms wrapped tight around the Senator's broad shoulders. Cicarix's vents were overclocking in a futile attempt to regulate his temperature, and he nuzzled into his servant's neck adoringly. They weren't nearly rough enough to scrape paint or leave dents, so there was only the weight of the other in each other's arms, and the frustration of unfulfilled pleasure.

Silere overloaded first, tipping his head back with a keening cry, frozen in a trance of ecstasy. With a shudder that ran through his entire frame he collapsed back against the berth, shuddering with aftershocks, waiting for Cicarix to reach completion himself.

Cicarix followed his servant into overload about two kliks later with a half-choked-off gasp, in unison with a little whimper from Silere as his spark flared out, pressing the slender mech down into the berth. They lay like that, pressed against each other, systems slowly winding down, until Cicarix finally rolled away, closing his chestplates and reclining on his back. His optics were offline, his lips parted and shimmering with condensation.

Silere sat up, his own chestplates clicking shut, shoulders trembling a little. He gazed down at Cicarix before shifting on the berth to lean against the headboard, an arm falling lazily around the Senator's helm. It was a kind, intimate gesture, and Cicarix returned it in kind, turning his head to rest in his servant's lap. Silere's optics glowed warmly, his lips curving into a small, affectionate smile.

One of Cicarix's massive arms was curled around the curve of his manservant's hip, simultaneously protective, dominating, and vulnerable. In turn the slender hands petting the Senator's helm were at the same time submissive and subordinate, and comforting, reassuring, solicitous. They fell offline like that, not quite tangled together, not quite apart.

---

When Silere onlined, Cicarix was still heavily offline, sprawled in his lap. The Senator didn't even awaken when his servant lifted his head and laid it carefully down on the berth. Silere smiled quietly to himself, running his fingers affectionately and feather-light over the smooth metal of Cicarix's broad cheek. He sighed, picking himself up, swaying slightly on his feet as he stumbled from the room.

He returned soon afterwards with a little high-grade in a cut-crystal glass, seating himself on the berth and running the palm of his hand over Cicarix's helm, optics glowing warmly as the Senator stirred.

"Minervis..?"

There was a beat of silence between them; Cicarix felt it, the hurt emanating from the mech seated beside him, and he awoke fully—Silere was still smiling, perpetually disinclined to blame Cicarix, or to be angry with him. Silere, quick of temper with his peers and inferiors at the best of times, had never once risen to anger against his master, nor even felt the wish to. It only served to make the Senator feel guiltier for his transgression.

"Silere…" He smiled, taking his servant by the chin and pressing their lips together tenderly, a silent apology.

They broke apart, and the hurt was gone from Silere's face. "Sir," he said gently, "I've brought you energon; here, drink." He held out the chalice and Cicarix took it, drinking obediently. Silere took a servile but firm hand in the matter of his master's health; a shadow fetching energon, always at the Senator's elbow, making sure he refuelled consistently. It was bad for ones systems, Silere maintained, to let one's fuel run low.

Cicarix was hardly complaining.

"Session begins again in seven and a half cycles, Sir," Silere murmured, taking the empty chalice back approvingly. "No word from Altihex, and a message has arrived for you from Praxon."

"Oh?" Cicarix's optics brightened. "Thank you, Silere." A pause for thought, and the Senator continued. "If you would bring me my correspondence; I'll leave the datapad on my desk, and you can send it later. Check for any news that may have transpired since I returned from the forum, and then attend to your other duties." Cicarix meant, cleaning his apartment—a job attended to by all of fifty servants in Altihex, to maintain the twenty floors of the Tower, but which was small enough for Silere to handle on his own across the three adjacent rooms of the Iacon residence—shipping and storing more energon, managing and checking finances, and the like. Silere was an extremely competent mech.

He fetched his master's correspondence and retired to the other rooms to attend his duties there. Cicarix sat at his desk to read the letter from Praxon, putting all thoughts of his servant from his mind and focusing on the news from his friend.

Praxon and Cicarix had been friends all their lives; but whereas Cicarix had always been a gifted orator, naturally skilled in the political arts, Praxon could find almost nothing more distasteful and stayed as far from Senatorial activity as he could. At a young age, he'd fallen in love with the ancient city of Praxus, with the beautiful Helix Gardens, the Hall of the Assembly, and the air of gaily edifying aestheticism the city gained from its attraction of the Arts, without Altihex's scholarly sobriety or the Machiavellian cosmopolitanism of Iacon—to the extent that he had not only remained there after his formal education with Cicarix had been concluded, but renamed himself after the city.

He and his best friend had always kept up a lively correspondence together. Even during the four meta-cycles that Cicarix had been co-Consul, they had exchanged letters regularly and eagerly with each other. So it was a matter of habit for Cicarix to take up his stylus, open a new document on the datapad and compose a return letter, freely inscribing all his thoughts of his most recent reading, the artists and philosophers he was patronizing, and of his son—he kept his mention of the Senate to a minimum, knowing how the topic bored Praxon, and of Silere he wrote not a word.

---

Social gatherings, such as turbofox hunts, were always mentioned to Mirage well in advance. The Alpha's young friends rarely spoke to the servants, coming and going largely as they pleased—and always with the most impeccable manners—to see or to retrieve Mirage. Cicarix had already called to say that he would not be returning in the foreseeable future, and the Senate would be in session now; Mirage counted the cycles out of habit, and always knew. No other visitors had been scheduled. So it was with considerable surprise that the young aristocrat, wandering the halls of his tower, heard the clipped, received tones of the butler Sedulor's voice, apparently engaged in conversation with a mech whose voice Mirage did not recognize at all.

The young noble walked toward the sound of the two conversing, curious to know to whom the mystery voice belonged, and why he had not been notified of the visitor. He sounded official: politely terse and reasonably well-educated, if rather dull—the rich intonation of his voice lacked any of the light-sparked charm Mirage was used to hearing. The sparkling could hear traces of an accent that he was quickly learning to associate with a middle-class background, only half educated away. And yet, this unknown mech seemed to be all but taking an authoritative attitude with Sedulor, and quite unpretentiously, as if he had every right to do so.

The Alpha's curiosity only deepened as he rounded the corner and at last laid optics on the mech.

Mirage had never seen an officer up close before. They tended not to bother the Alphas. This mech wore the insignia of the Autobots—the military and law enforcement division commanded by the Prime—in bright, optic-catching red on his black and white plating and stood stiff and to attention, his expression balanced in some indefinable place between calm, kind and stern. There was something very… elegant in his military propriety, something Mirage couldn't quite put his finger on, but decided he liked nonetheless.

"Thank you for your time," the officer was saying. "If you would notify Sentinel Prime as soon as Senator Cicarix returns—"

Mirage stepped forwards, his jaw lifted and his arms folded across his chest.

"I'm the master of this Tower, in the Senator's absence," he announced, all youthful authority, golden optics bright and commanding. "You ought to direct your business through me."

The officer and the butler both took a step back, each as surprised as the other at the sudden interruption.

"Master Mirage," Sedulor said gently, "this needs be no concern of yours."

"It's a concern of mine if there are mechs being invited into my home without my knowing. Why was I not informed?"

Sedulor bowed shallowly, acquiescing immediately. "I'm sorry, Master Mirage. It shan't happen again."

"Very well," Mirage said, relenting. Even at his tender age, the Alpha sparkling knew perfectly well how to command his social inferiors. He turned to the officer, gracious by virtue of his manners, and sweet by virtue of his age. "Officer, what's your designation and your business?"

The Autobot's face shifted, almost imperceptibly, and it took Mirage a moment or two to realize that it was a smile.

"My designation's Prowl," he said, "And I came here to talk to Senator Cicarix, on the subject of a certain matter concerning Consul Ratbat."

"My creator is in Iacon," replied Mirage, "and will remain there for the foreseeable future. Central Command will be able to contact him there. May I ask what's this matter about Consul Ratbat?"

"I'm afraid it's confidential, Mirage," Prowl replied, gently but firmly. The officer was respectful, but not quite deferential—and certainly conveyed to Mirage that the denial was the end of the matter. Mirage didn't press it.

"All right, officer— Prowl," he said, offering a charming, almost shy little smile of his own. "Should you need my assistance in anything, don't hesitate to ask. Altihex is your loyal servant." Mirage had been taught to speak formally to officials, but despite the erudite language the sparkling's own coy, waggish charm suffused his words and stopped them from seeming at all out of place.

Prowl nodded, saluting stiffly. He didn't pay Mirage respect as a servant might, not being under the young mech's employ. "Thank you for your time, Mirage. Good day."

The officer turned away, allowing Sedulor to show him out, and Mirage stayed behind to watch him leave. Prowl wasn't like the other mechs he'd met. His armor gleamed, polished to a mirror shine, and the doorwings on his back were held as high and rigid as a salute. He was elegant, yes, but there was nothing about him of the soft indulgence possessed of every other elegant mech Mirage knew. Prowl's elegance derived from the air of ruthless efficiency he carried about him, such that any clumsiness would have been wasteful, any superfluous movement irresponsible.

It took Mirage a moment or two longer of curious musing before he turned and made his way back to his quarters.

* * *

_I feel it necessary to reiterate the difference between the Autobots and the Cybertronians. The Autobots, at this stage, are simply the military and law enforcement. Their sigil is the military seal, nothing more at this stage. The Prime—Sentinel, during the Golden Age—may be considered as a General, the Chief Commander of of the military and police. Only the military is ruled in this manner; it would have been a preposterous suggestion that the civilians of the Golden Age should be ruled by an autocratic authority. Instead, the government of the Senate was deemed a just and acceptable civilian authority. _

_A note on Praxus; whereas it may be said that Altihex is the seat of learning, and of scholarship, Praxus is undeniably the home of culture on Cybertron. Any mech wishing to acquire a philosophical education, for instance, would be more likely to travel to Praxus than to Altihex.  
_


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **The Golden Age and its Enemies - Chapter FOUR  
**Rating: **G  
**Pairing: **None/implied StarscreamxSkyfire  
**Wordcount: **2431

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

The first time Skyfire saw Starscream, the jet was sitting in the courtyard enclosed by the warm, peachy walls of Complex Epsilon-12. Garish red and blue armor, not bulky enough to make him look ungraceful but certainly not so thin as to make him look delicate, made him the most optic-catching sight in the courtyard. He had eschewed the robes most commonly worn by students of the Academy; many fliers did by virtue of their wings—Skyfire himself included—but there was an air of arrogance about this particular flier that suggested his real reason was that he refused to cover himself up with anything. Big silver wings fanned slowly, absent-mindedly back and forth, stirring the air around them. The dark face was calm but tense in concentration, the optics narrowed and the mouth set, as the Tetrajet focused on reading the datapad in his hands.

The first time Skyfire saw Starscream, he thought that the Tetrajet looked beautiful.

It was the first decacycle of the semester, and no lectures were scheduled that day. Small groups of mechs were scattered about the spacious courtyard, talking amongst each other, relaxing and enjoying each other's company; Skyfire, entranced as he was by the Tetrajet's sharply attractive appearance, failed at the time to notice Starscream's conspicuous solitude. Consequently, failing also to consider any of the implications of the jet's isolation, Skyfire crossed the courtyard and bent down double, his broad shadow falling across the jet, and smiled.

"Hello," he said, his voice soft and amiable, warm. "My name's Skyfire."

The poor shuttle was caught completely off guard when the jet did not even so much as look up at him. The silver pinions kept up their lazy fanning without a hitch — the Tetrajet in fact made no acknowledgement of Skyfire's presence, or of his introduction, whatsoever.

"…What's your name?" the shuttle tried again, sounding considerably more halfsparked about it now. Predictably, no answer was forthcoming.

The dull hum of chatter suffusing the courtyard neither changed nor abated, but Skyfire suddenly became aware of it, and simultaneously of Starscream's singular lack of company. The shuttle faltered, his warm, blue optics dimming, and he straightened up, feeling helplessly awkward.

"…I.. I guess I'll, uh, see you later," he mumbled, his own wings flicking apologetically, and he turned away from the Tetrajet, returning the way he'd come. He earned himself a few brief glances, most either pitying, knowing, or just downright conspiratorial; apparently the beautiful, antisocial jet had a reputation that had completely failed to reach Skyfire's audios in time.

Starscream did not once look up, even after Skyfire had left.

---

"Ohh, that was so _disgusting!_" cried Windfall happily, trotting along after Skyfire, the little red cruiser having to take two steps for each of Skyfire's strides, her legs impeded somewhat by the robe. "Why do things like that _exist_?"

They were leaving that decacycle's xenology lab, and Skyfire could still feel the echo of the dissection, the soft, wet firmness of the insides of the organic creature under his fingers. Windfall was rubbing her hands together to try and rid herself of that very same feeling.

"It was fascinating," the shuttle replied, smiling down at his little friend. "To think that all that wet stuff is so complex on the molecular level—self-replication, self-repair..!"

"Oh, sure," the little femme replied, rolling her shoulders and rubbing the palms of her hands against her hip plating. "It's great stuff. But it was still totally disgusting."

"Yeah," Skyfire agreed, "yeah, it was foul. I can still _feel_ it."

"Ugh, me too!"

They made their way to the dining hall, Windfall spotting her own group of friends—mostly astrophysicists, as it turned out—and tugging Skyfire over with one slim hand, made to seem even tinier against the shuttle's big arm. They seated themselves—Skyfire somewhat awkwardly, feeling inevitably incongruous, being the biggest amongst the group by a very long way—and were soon engaged deep in conversation, only half noticing when they were served energon, drinking without stopping their chatter.

"Oh, I don't know; I certainly couldn't manage what you clever lot do!"

The speaker was a dark purple mech, blocky and heavily built, a student of Cybertronian literature, who had apparently been friends with the pretty and outgoing Windfall since the very first semester. He seemed perfectly well at home surrounded by mechs who knew nothing of his discipline, and of whose he himself knew nothing; as well as the astrophysicists, Windfall kept company with one student from the philosophy department and two young musicians, duet partners, and judging from how close they sat and the looks exchanged between them, lovers as well.

"You awful mech, Gearshift, you're fishing!"

Gearshift, the purple mech, waved away Windfall's accusation flippantly.

"I certainly am not. Besides, I'm not jealous. I'm quite content to let you all discover the mysteries of the universe; I've got my servos full with our own mysteries on Cybertron!"

"Such as how you'll finish your senior thesis," chipped in one of the astrophysicists, and Gearshift laughed.

"Quite! And what's more, I'm certainly not envious of you, Windfall, nor you, Skyfire! The mere thought of being buried up to my audios in organic muck is simply horrifying."

Skyfire glanced up, unsure of what to say, of whether this mech was mocking him or not. Windfall, however, laughed, and slapped her friend lightly on the arm.

"You big coward," she teased. "Frightened of a bit of slime!"

"I'm not _frightened, _I'm _disgusted_; as you ought to be, you contrary femme!"

Skyfire was unobtrusively silent, unable to think of anything to say. Windfall was almost effervescent with friendliness; to look at her, it seemed as though she were created to be social, to have friends. She liked to sit next to Skyfire through their xenology classes, which had perplexed the shuttle to no end because he never knew how to handle her, but she didn't seem to notice, or at least mind. She was, inevitably, popular, as evidenced by her friendly, sparkling dominance given to her willingly by the group of friends present, and it was so easy for Skyfire to go along with it and laugh when she laughed and allow her to lay her hand flat and elegant on his arm and demand happily that he speak more, which always elicited no more than a self-deprecating laugh from the white shuttle.

Skyfire was no longer sure what the conversation was about. His optics had wandered. The red and blue Tetrajet that he had so spectacularly failed to talk to more than half a decacycle ago had entered the room with an armful of datapads and sat alone, not thanking the servant that brought him his energon, refuelling slowly and reading. Judging from the stiff, high position of his wings, the narrowing of the blue optics and the barely restrained snarl on the dark lips, the antisocial flier was in a high temper.

"Skyfire?"

The shuttle jolted abruptly back to the present moment.

"Yes, Windfall?"

"You seem distracted." A devious little smile crept on to her lips. "What could be on your processors?"

Skyfire smiled automatically in return.

"Who is that mech?"

"The one talking to Silvershot? That's Boltlock, he—"

"No, no, the flier, the red and blue Tetrajet that isn't talking to anybody."

"_Oh._" Skyfire's optics dimmed slightly at the rather ominous tone that Windfall's voice had taken on. "That's Starscream."

"…What's wrong with him?" Skyfire asked, rather naively, and Windfall widened one optic quizzically.

"You must be the last one here asking that question, Skyfire," she told him. "I have no idea what's wrong with him, and I don't think anyone wants to know. He's nuts and bolts; a first class fragger. He went for Novaron last decacycle in a chemistry lecture."

"_Novaron?_" Skyfire was astonished; he knew the timid chemistry professor informally. A less offensive mech could hardly be imagined. "Why would anyone want to go for him? He's not even sport."

"Poor professor must have said something that blew him the wrong way," replied Windfall. "At any rate, Starscream took him to pieces—just stood up in the auditorium and decimated him. Insulted him, attacked his intellectual integrity and stormed out! I heard he even refused to apologize. He still attends the lectures and Novaron doesn't want to say anything to him. He said it must have been a slip, that Starscream must have been under pressure, and he doesn't want to stir things up; I asked him. He thinks there must be something very wrong with Starscream. I'll say there is—he's an absolute aft!"

Skyfire glanced back at the Tetrajet, whose shoulders were hunched up defensively, glaring at the datapad he was reading as if he wanted to burn a hole in it.

"I say, Skyfire," said Windfall suddenly, "you weren't the mech that tried to talk to him about three megacycles ago, were you?"

"Er, yes," Skyfire said rather sheepishly, and Windfall burst out laughing.

"Oh, no, Skyfire! You silly shuttle, everyone's been laughing at you!"

Skyfire laughed softly, self-deprecatingly. "Oh, nevermind," he said. "I didn't hear the news."

"Starscream didn't say anything beastly to you, did he?"

"He didn't say anything at all," Skyfire replied. "That was the problem, he didn't even look up."

"Oh, you big lug, Skyfire," said Windfall affectionately.

Gearshift chimed in. "If you ask me, he's very working-class. No idea of how to behave."

"Now, Gearshift," said Windfall. "Lots of students here come from underprivileged backgrounds."

"That's besides the point," Gearshift replied. "It's not how much energon your creators can bring home; it's how your processors are programmed. That Starscream fellow is just uncouth. He ought to go back to Kaon and do whatever he does best there." There were only certain activities one did in Kaon; drinking, whoring, and fighting were the most popular three.

"Oh really, Gearshift, you're unbearable," Windfall said gaily, affectionately.

"You know, everyone, it's really stifling in here." One of the two musicians, who previously had seemed more interested in each other than in the group, spoke up. "Why don't we go out into the grounds? It's much nicer out there."

Windfall clapped her hands.

"What a splendid idea! Let's go. Come on, Skyfire!"

Skyfire smiled at her gently. "Actually, Windfall, I'm going to stay here."

The red cruiser's face fell. "Oh, Skyfire, you're a bore. Why?"

"I just have some work I want to catch up on. I'll stay here and finish my cube and then go on to the library. Go on, I'll see you later, Windfall."

Skyfire waited until they had all left, Gearshift slinging an idle arm around Windfall's shoulders whilst the little red femme linked her arm with the nearest astrophysicist, and then drained his cube and stood to make his way over to the Tetrajet. He half expected the flier to hit him, or just to get up and walk off.

Starscream didn't. He ignored Skyfire, just as before, reading with absolute, glowering focus, as the shuttle sat down opposite him. Skyfire didn't attempt conversation; he just sat, keeping the flier company, happily gazing at Starscream. Skyfire had his own hypotheses about Starscream's behavior, and they weren't so different from Novaron's.

At last, the silence got to Starscream, and the flier slammed his datapad down on the table, making Skyfire's wings twitch in surprise. The big shuttle looked up to find a pair of narrowed, glowering blue optics fixed to his.

"What," snapped Starscream, "do you want?"

Skyfire gave the other flier a little smile. "Hello Starscream," he said. "I'm Skyfire. Nice to meet you."

Several long, silent nanokliks passed as Starscream attempted to work out whether or not Skyfire was being sarcastic; in the end, the helpless sincerity on the shuttles expression and in his voice were undeniable, and Starscream's lips turned down in what could only be termed a pout.

"How do you know my name?" he muttered reluctantly.

"Windfall told me," Skyfire replied happily. It was so oddly fulfilling to finally hold a real conversation with the taciturn jet.

"Are you stupid? Why would I know who the frag Windfall is?" Starscream snapped.

"Oh. Windfall's a friend of mine. She knows everyone."

Apparently, Skyfire had said something wrong, because Starscream's face darkened into an absolutely murderous scowl.

"Go away, I don't want your pity."

Skyfire's face fell. He hadn't meant to upset the temperamental flier.

"I… what's wrong, Starscream? I didn't mean anything."

"I'm not interested in your little friends," Starscream said flatly, and was caught slightly off guard when Skyfire smiled.

"Oh, that's all right, neither am I, really."

"What's your point, Skyfire?" Starscream interrupted curtly; though apparently he was mollified by Skyfire's response. The shuttle could almost see him trying to hide his conciliation, as if he wasn't willing to give Skyfire that much.

"Nothing…" replied the shuttle contritely. "I just wanted to talk to you."

"I have to work."

That was enough for Skyfire; ever polite, pleased and only slightly smug that the Seeker hadn't really attacked him, was still talking to him, the shuttle got to his feet.

"Alright," he said. "I'll see you later, Starscream."

He didn't miss the slight widening of Starscream's optics before the Tetrajet buried himself in his datapads as though Skyfire wasn't even there. Skyfire left the dining hall feeling almost _too_ fulfilled, considering the undeniable brusqueness of Starscream's attitude. There was something about the combination of abject loneliness and a degree of self-possession and confidence that made it impossible to pity Starscream for it that made Skyfire determined, if not to befriend the jet, at least to be closer to him than anyone else could manage. It was hard to discern whether or not it was the challenge of it, or some indescribable and inexplicable attraction to the Tetrajet as he was himself; Skyfire didn't fuss over his own motives, gaily making his way to the library.

* * *

_Considering the importance to Cybertron's culture—and its subsequent history—of Starscream, I deem it worth devoting not a little time to his earlier years; additionally, the insight they provide into the atmosphere of the Altihex Academy, one of the very cornerstones of the Golden Age, is invaluable. _

_Thanks to my wonderful beta, Thermalflare.  
_


End file.
